


Unstitched

by alanabloom



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Eventual Smut, F/M, angsty sex, post-1x11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:37:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alanabloom/pseuds/alanabloom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slowly, painstakingly, he looks at Alana.  Her eyes are hazy, but so gentle and earnest, and Will's heart catches as he realizes they are at cross purposes, each trying to prove opposing points: Will, that he is a monster; Alana, that he isn't.  For a second his chest aches, and he thinks, <em>Not now.  Not like this.</em>  But then his eyes fall on the cut on her cheek, and he remembers that this is the only way it can be, that he has rendered all other options impossible.  </p><p>Picks up at the hospital scene in 1x11.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unstitched

_This scar is a fleck on my porcelain skin_  
 _Tried to reach deep but you couldn't get in_  
 _Now you're outside me_  
 _You see all the beauty_  
 _Repent all your sin_

 

*

In stories, there are heroes and there are monsters. The lines between them never blur.

In stories, when the hero saves the girl he loves from the monster, they live happily after. It's that simple.

The hero doesn't collapse in the snow right after slaying the monster, immediately becoming the weak one yet again.

The hero doesn't save the girl he loves, only to turn around and hurt her himself.

 

*

 

Alana sits by Will's hospital bed. She holds his hand, and she worries. He'd been lying in the snow, his eyes shut, mumbling incoherently, when she got to him. She'd yelled at her armed escort to call an ambulance, and then she'd knelt in the snow, Will's head in her lap, trying not to look at Gideon's blood, a crimson burst against the snow.

There's a light tapping at the door, and Alana turns to see Hannibal leaning into the doorway. "How's the patient?"

"He hasn't woken up yet," she replies tiredly. "And he's still got a fever."

Hannibal comes to stand at the foot of Will's bed. "It's astounding he managed to take Gideon down in that condition." He nods his head at Alana. "Though, of course, I'm glad you're safe."

Alana tries to smile, but it falls flat, and she returns her gaze to Will's unconscious form. "He could've been killed. Even trying to drive all that way..."

While she's not looking at him, Hannibal studies her. She hasn't let go of Will's hand. After a moment, Hannibal responds in an offhand voice, "I suppose he had proper motivation." Alana doesn't answer. A beat of silence hovers, until Hannibal asks mildly, "Do you love him?"

Alana swivels her head around to look at him. There's no surprise in her expression, only a weary annoyance. "Does that really matter right now?"

"I suppose not. I was merely curious."

She sighs impatiently and states in a flat voice, "If you're asking because you want to know if I care about Will, then the answer is yes. If you're asking because you want to know if this is extremely upsetting, then the answer is also _yes_. No other considerations seem relevant."

"Fair enough." Hannibal smiles slightly, tone almost teasing. "Though you do realize you're deflecting."

"I'm aware," Alana replies tersely, something in her tone firmly closing the subject.

They're quiet. A monitor connected to Will's heart beeps steadily. Then, in a quiet voice, Hannibal reminds her, "I'm worried about him, too."

Alana softens, glancing at her former mentor over her shoulder. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just..." She runs her free hand through her hair, frowning. "I was thinking. While he's here, in the hospital...it may be worth running some tests. A CAT, scan at least. The doctor said he had a hundred and five degree fever when we brought him in that...that's not just stress. Coupled with everything else that's been going on with him lately...what if there's something physical wrong?"

"That is something we considered," Hannibal tells her. "Will underwent standard brain scans last week. Fortunately - or, unfortunately, according to him - nothing physical was wrong."

Alana's face darkens. "He wanted there to be something wrong?"

"I believe he wanted a physical explanation," Hannibal explains gravely. "Rather than indication of mental illness."

A muscle jumps in Alana's jaw as she purses her lips, giving Will's fingers a slight, instinctive squeeze. "What doctor?"

"The one recently murdered, Dr. Sutcliffe. You heard about the woman with Cotard's syndrome? She followed Will here, I believe, and killed the doctor while Will was in an MRI machine."

Alana glances up. "So he was having more tests? Before his doctor _died_?"

Narrowing his eyes, Hannibal tells her, "I assure you, Alana, Sutcliffe and I went over Will's original test results in detail. There was no cause for alarm."

"But if he was doing additional tests, there must have been other possibilities he wanted to rule out. His doctors here should at least be told about the hallucinations, the nightmares...and whatever else he doesn't tell me," Alana says firmly. She looks Hannibal in the eye, reading his skepticism, her body tensing slightly as she readies for an argument. "Hannibal, look at where we are."

There's a long, drawn out pause as Hannibal calmly watches her, looking ready to protest. Eventually, though, he surprises her by nodding. "You're right. No use taking the risk." Alana's half out of her chair, but Hannibal puts up a hand to stop her. "Why don't I go find his doctor and explain the situation? It may carry more weight coming from his therapist than a concerned friend." His gaze skirts again to Alana and Will's joined hands. "In any case, you should stay with him."

She inclines her head in acknowledgement, and even manages a small, grateful smile. "Thank you."

"Of course." Hannibal exits the hospital room.

Alana exhales shakily, leaning forward on the edge of the bed. Her chest constricts as she considers what Hannibal said - that Will _wanted_ something to be wrong with his brain - and all the horrifying implications of that.

Impulsively, she lifts the hand not holding onto his and tangles it in his hair, gently stroking the limp, brown curls, a helpless, futile gesture of comfort.

 

*

 

_He is in the field outside Alana's house. The house is barely visible in the distance, and he's trying to get there, trying so damn hard, but the snow is up to his thighs. He slips sometimes, falling against a blanket of snow and somehow finding himself instantly submerged in freezing cold water._

_The stag is somewhere in front of him, slushing easily through the snow. Somehow, vaguely, he recognizes that he must get to Alana's house before it does, but he can't move without drowning._

_The snow falls around him in thick, heavy flakes. But they melt when they hit him, sending cold water trickling slowly down his back, soaking him even more thoroughly._

_The stag turns as if taunting Will. Behind it, he can barely make out Alana's silhouette in the window._

_Will opens his eyes, starting awake from the nightmare. He's in a white room; too white. His eyes snap shut again, rejecting the light._

_"Will?"_

_He knows the voice. Disoriented, Will squints._

_Garrett Jacob Hobbs is standing over him. His hand is on Will's head, holding him down._

_He starts to panic. "No, no, get away from me..."_

_"Will, hey, it's okay..."_

_The voice is all wrong. Not Hobbs' voice. Alana's voice. He's got Alana._

_Will's flat on his back, something holding him from the waist down. He thrashes, his arms flailing against Hobbs, trying to get up, get to Alana. "WHERE IS SHE?"_

_"Will, look at me..."_

_Hobbs takes hold of his wrist. With instinctive, forceful purpose, Will seizes Hobbs' arms and hurls him away from him. Hobbs' body spins, his cheek catching the edge of the bedside table as he topples to the floor._

_There's a scream. Alana's scream. Will struggles to free his legs from tightly wrapped bedsheets, and stumbles to his feet. "Alana! ALANA?!"_

_A door opens_ and Hannibal steps inside.

He surveys the scene. Will's shaky on his feet beside the bed, yelling for Alana, his eyes wild, face pale and soaked in sweat. Just behind Will, Alana's on her knees on the ground, her head ducked, her back to them.

Calmly, Hannibal crosses the room and grabs Will's arms, his voice firm, "Will. I need you to listen. It's 2:24 a.m, you're in a hospital in-"

"I don't care, _I DON'T CARE_ , Hobbs has her, he has Alana-"

"Garrett Jacob Hobbs is dead. So is Abel Gideon." Hannibal looks over Will's shoulder, where Alana is slowly getting to her feet. "And Alana's right behind you."

Will whips around just in time to see Alana straightening up. There's blood soaking her left cheek, dripping onto the floor. Her face is frozen in a dazed sort of shock.

"Ah...Alana..." Will slams up against reality like it's a brick wall, finally registering what's going on. He's in a hospital. Gideon dead, probably hours ago. And Alana's bleeding.

"What..." Hobbs standing over him. Alana's voice. Shoving...someone. Reason catches up to him, and Will exhales sharply, horrified. His voice cracks. "Did...did I do that?"

Alana swipes a hand over her cheek, and stares at the crimson smear on her palm as if noticing it for the first time.

Will holds his hands out in front of them, staring down at his splayed palms like he doesn't recognize them. His head feels heavy with panic, and his words trip over each other, desperate, panicked protests, "Did I...no, please, I didn't, no, no, I did, I did..." The words are lost between a low, horrifying moan.

The sound strikes something in Alana, somehow shooting through her daze, and she takes an unsteady step toward him, her voice small as she starts, "Will-"

"No." Wide eyed, he stumbles away from her, face contorting in a wild mix of self-revulsion and horror. They stare at each other for a long, heavy moment, and abruptly Will turns on his heel, his back to her, a strangled scream unraveling from his throat.

Something inside him comes unstitched, cracking open, and in two seconds he's crossed the small room to the far and slams his hands against it, screaming, his voice as frightened and desperate as it had been at Hannibal's earlier, but now laced with disgust. "What's the matter with me? _What's happening to me, WHAT DID I DO?_ "

Alana stares at him, horrorstruck. A nurse opens the door, takes one look at the scene, and spins back into the hallway, calling for help. Hannibal puts a hand on Alana's arm, tugging her gently away from Will. "You should have that looked at. Go down to the ER."

She allows herself to be pulled away, but doesn't move her gaze from Will as two burly orderlies sweep past her, one holding a syringe. They grip Will's flailing arms, pull him away from the wall, but before they have to sedate him, the fight drains rapidly from his body. He goes weak in their grasp, sinking onto the floor, where his body begins to convulse in hard, silent sobs.

Hannibal has to physically guide Alana out the door.

*

 

Jack Crawford finds Alana in the hospital's ER, sitting on the edge of a tiny bed surrounded by a curtain while an intern expertly closes the cut on her left cheekbone with black thread.

She's stone still and staring blankly ahead, eyes hollow, like she has no awareness of what's being done to her. Disconcerted, Jack moves very deliberately into Alana's line of vision. "Are you alright?"

It takes a second, but Alana moves her eyes to meet his. "Have you seen him?"

"No. Just got here." After a pause, Jack clarifies, "I called Hannibal to check in, he told me what happened."

There's a storm brewing in Alana's eyes, replacing some of the eerie emptiness, but her voice still sounds drained as she asks quietly, "When's this gonna end, Jack?"

Jack sighs heavily. "Alana..."

"What's it going to take?"

Frowning, Jack tries reasonably, "He was still feverish. On drugs, disoriented from waking up. He would never knowingly-"

" _I_ know that," she interupts fiercely. "I do. But...you didn't see the look on his face. He thinks he's..." She grits her teeth, eyes glittering with either anger or tears, Jack can't tell. "He's not okay, Jack. And now I'll be lucky if he ever looks at me again, so you or Hannibal have to..." Her voice catches, and she doesn't say anything more.

 

*

 

Ten minutes later, Jack enters the hospital room to find Will in an even worse state.

He's sitting up in the hospital bed, eyes bloodshot and swollen into slits. He's leaning forward, his hands braced, palms down, on the mattress, looking gravely ill.

Will doesn't look up when he comes in, and Jack, discomforted, glances from Will to Hannibal and back before asking in a would be casual tone, "How's the fever?"

"102.7," Hannibal replies crisply, as if Will isn't capable of answering. "The doctors aren't sure if there's an underlying cause."

Abandoning all premise of speaking directly to Will, Jack focuses on Hannibal and asks, "How long do they want to keep him?"

"That I don't know."

Silence settles. Jack eyes Will, and after a moment of no acknowledgement, Jack tries, "You did good tonight, Will. Even with that high a fever, you stopped Gideon...you probably saved Alana's life."

Her name gets a response, at least; Will lets out a crooked, gasping noise and screws his eyes shut.

Hannibal lifts his eyes to Jack, still speaking as though Will isn't in the room with them. "He doesn't wish to discuss Dr. Bloom."

With an impatient huffing sound, Jack goes to sit in the chair across the bed from Hannibal, and levels Will with an intense stare even though he isn't looking up. "Will. I just saw Alana. She's fine, and she knows it was an accident. Now, the doctor's almost finished with her and she's gonna come up here and-"

At that, Will whips his head around like a panicked little boy who's just been told he has to do something extremely unpleasant. "No. She can't." He swings his eyes to Hannibal, the pitch of his voice climbing. "You said you'd keep her away."

Hannibal stands up, directing his explanation at Jack, "Will doesn't want to see Alana." He pauses. "And it's not a bad idea. For both of them."

Jack sighs, slightly irritated that the whole conversation is being filtered through Hannibal. "Will, you saved her life tonight. Surely that's more important than-"

Will cuts him off swiftly, addressing Hannibal, "Just tell her I'm sorry. Tell her..." His voice wavers. "I'm so sorry."

Hannibal nods shortly. "I'll pass that along."

He walks out of the hospital room to head Alana off, leaving Jack alone with Will.

Jack leans back, expecting more silence, but after awhile Will speaks in a quiet, self-flagellating voice, "Gideon was right about me. About what I am..." His face twists, and each word sounds like it's taking a great deal of force to get out. "Like him. She..she knows what I am, she knows I'm no good for her, but she thought she could still be my friend and she's wrong." Will raises his head, his jaw working furiously, eyes welling with tears. "I hurt her. And I could do it again."

 

*

 

Alana rounds a corner and nearly collides with Hannibal.

She freezes and looks up at him, immediately gauging his purpose. "I'm going to talk to him," she says firmly.

"That's not a good idea. And I think you know that."

She lifts an eyebrow, challenging. "It'll benefit Will to see that I'm fine."

"But you're not." Hannibal flicks his eyes toward the neat row of black stitches, high on Alana's cheek bone and outlined by a dark bruise. "Not unscathed, in any case. That's all he'll process."

Alana shakes her head helplessly, the muscles in her face tightening.

"He told me to tell you he's sorry," Hannibal adds. "But he is also adamant that you stay away from him."

A frustrated sound curls its way out of her throat, and it takes a moment before she can speak, in a tone of defeated resignation, "What we talked about. His doctors, doing some tests-"

"I'll take care of it," Hannibal assures her.

"Thanks."

She catches her lower lip between her teeth. "And you'll update me? On how he is?"

"Of course."

Alana nods. She stands there for another moment, shifting her weight, seemingly trying to come up with more questions to ask, a way to postpone her departure. Finally, she just shakes her head and swears quietly, " _Fuck_ ," before turning to leave the hospital.

 

*

 

For a week after the hospital, he manages to cut her out completely.

Will ignores several phone calls from Alana. He avoids planning lectures in empty classrooms. Twice she comes pushing through the crowd of exiting students at the end of the class, and Will has to grab his things and join the exodus, not glancing over at her, being careful not to even brush her as he hurries past. 

Toward the end of the week Jack brings her in to consult on a case with them, and they end up in the lab together, listening to the forensic team give a report. Will pointedly doesn't look at her, and especially doesn't look at the stitches and still fading bruise on her face. When he has to speak in response to something case related she says, he makes sure to give the impression he's addressing the whole room.

He hates this, hates acting like he's angry with her, like she's the one who needs avoiding and not the other way around...but it's the only way. She isn't staying away on her own, not yet. And sure, Will hates himself for the way he's treating her, but really, what's one more thing to hate himself for?

The night they wrap the case, Will spends several hours working meticulously on his fishing reels and trying not to think. He's spent the last week fighting the image that's constantly nudging at the edge of his mind's eye: Alana beside the hospital bed, blood dripping down her cheek, staining her shirt and hands, that dazed expression on her face.

Before he goes to bed, he opens the front door to let the dogs out as he always does, and Alana's standing on his porch. 

She's leaning patiently against the house, right beside the door, and doesn't bother with greetings, just walks straight past him and inside before Will even has time to register her presence.

Will's whole body tenses, his gut tightening with panic. Slowly, he turns around in the doorway, not stepping back into the house. Alana's casually draping her coat over a chair, settling in, her movements all fierce determination and unwavering purpose.

Bracing his hands on either side of the doorframe, Will clenches out, "You have to go."

"No, thanks," she says politely, as though she's turning down the offer for a beverage. 

Stupidly, he just stands there, pressing all his weight against his hands until his muscles are straining against the door. "I mean it, Alana. Get out." 

She ignores this, shooting Will an accommodating smile. "You can bring the dogs in. I'll wait." 

Will is at a loss. His words aren't making an impact, like they're harmless little bubbles she can wave away and wait until they pop. He could go upstairs to his bedroom, shut the door and go to sleep as though she isn't here, but the mere fact of the two of them in his house alone makes him nervous.

Winston brushes at his legs trying to get back in the house, and Will finally relaxes his arms and turns from the door, stepping out on the porch and whistling for the rest of the dogs.

When he comes back in, Alana's sitting on the couch with Winston draped over her lap, scratching his ears and looking perfectly at home. The image produces a sharp pang of longing somewhere between Will's chest and stomach, but he quickly turns away and moves into the living room, careful to keep a wide berth between them.

"I'd really like you to go," he tells her in a low, desperate voice. 

She turns and gives him a measured look. "You haven't given me a chance to thank you. For what you did last week, with Gideon."

He grimaces. "Please don't thank me for anything."

Alana stands, giving him a thin smile, replying lightly, "I think it's the polite thing to do." For every step she takes toward him, Will backs away, like they're magnets repelling each other. He never gets close enough to see how fragile her casual, unruffled front really is.

His eyes accidentally land on her stitches and he can't look away. Alana quickly realizes the subject of his scrutiny and shifts her weight, self conscious. She lifts her fingers to touch the thread, forcing her voice to be offhand as she says, "They can come out tomorrow." He doesn't say anything. "Not my first time having stitches. Once, when I was seven, my brother Aaron was dragging me around on a blanket-"

"Alana - " Will's expression is pained.

" - pretending it was a magic carpet. And he whipped around a corner too fast - "

"Stop it."

"I hit my forehead on the edge of a door. Ten stitches. Aaron was more freaked out than I - "

" _SHUT UP_." His voice cracks in the middle of the yell; his eyes are screwed shut, his hands clutching at his scalp. Voice unraveling, he stammers, "It's not the same, you know it's not the same..."

Alarmed, Alana takes a few steps forward and rests a gentle hand on Will's forearm. The second she touches him he recoils, springing away from Alana as his eyes fly open, huge and genuinely scared.

Reality falls like a cleaver between them, and Alana's face turns somber, pretense of normalcy gone.

"What do you want me to say?" Her voice is soft. "That it didn't scare me?" She wants so badly to reach out and touch him, counteract the harsh reality of her words, but he's put five feet between them. "It did, alright? I was...startled. And it even hurt, but _Will_ , it was an accident, and extreme circumstances _do_ apply. You were sick-"

" _Sick_ ," he gives a short, bitter laugh. Gideon's words echo in his head, and his fears start spilling out without filter. "More than sick. I'm...I'm dangerous, I'm becoming one of them, a monster-" 

"You're _not_ -"

"No, I am, I am, look at what I did to you-"

" _Will_." She makes her voice forceful, though her throat is painfully tight. "I'm not scared of you. Okay, sure, I may not neccessarily want to be sitting beside you when you wake up anytime soon-" Alana stops talking abruptly and winces. Will does, too. They're both silent for a moment, avoiding each other's eyes, letting the unintentional implications of her words hover and die in the air between them.

Gathering herself, Alana continues, "But I'm not afraid of...being in the same _room_ as you." 

"Maybe you should be," he snaps.

"You can't really think that." Alana crosses her arms, stubborn. "You don't get to isolate yourself, Will. You need people who care about you."

He goes quiet then, frustrated. She's not getting it; Alana's too relentless, with a powerful, and occasionally ill-advised, sense of loyalty and compassion. 

He'll have to drive her away. He's spent so long trying to hide his darkness from Alana; now, to protect her from it, he'll have it to show her.

In a way.

Will narrows his eyes, sets his jaw, and looks directly at her before saying harshly, "I need people who _care_ about me? Fine. But I don't need _you_." Her face freezes, and Will continues, the words bitter and poisonous in his throat, "You're not my therapist. You're not my girlfriend. So you're not much damn use to me, are you?"

But Alana just scowls at him, looking instantly irritated. "I'm a _psychologist_ , Will. That's not going to work on me."

"I'm serious," Will spats, stone faced. "Get the fuck out of my house."

She rolls her eyes, impatient. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"No," he retorts, forcing a steady, matter of fact tone. "I think you _pity_ me. And I think you feel guilty, because I kissed you and you stopped it. You shouldn't worry. I was having a bad night, and I wanted to feel in control, so I did something reckless. It had _nothing_ to do with you." Alana's eyes flash, the first crack in her veneer. He's close, so Will adds, " _I_ never said I had feelings for you. I never even asked to be your friend. So you can save your pity for patients. I sure as hell don't need it."

Alana stares at him, furious. But it's a quiet, dangerous rage, boiling behind her eyes, swelling in her throat. There's a long, weighted silence, and Will thinks he's finally gotten enough shots in, but then she takes a step closer to him. He takes one backwards. 

"Is this really how you want to be right now?" Alana asks quietly, every syllable vibrating with anger.

"It's the truth."

"Fine." She lifts an eyebrow, challengingly. Then, as if she's daring him, says, "Then hit me."

Will's insides constrict, his blood freezing. "What?"

She comes closer, advancing on him, eyes narrow, and Will backs away, panicked and uncomprehending. 

"You want me to be scared of you so badly? Then do it. Hit me."

"Fuck off." The curse sounds all wrong in the small, scared little boy voice that comes out. His panic feels like ice water, dripping down the back of his neck and making him shiver. He holds his hands behind him, fingers splayed, muscles tense, like he genuinely believes he won't be able to control them.

"You're such a goddamn monster? Prove it. _Hit me_." Her voice is utterly confident. She isn't worried.

"Shut up."

"You've been standing here trying to prove to me how horrible you are. Why stop?" She's called his bluff.

"Alana, please - " Begging now. Suddenly, his back slams against the wall of his living room, leaving him cornered. He tucks his palms between his back and the wall, eyes darting wildly.

The taunting note is gone from her voice, and she sounds angry again as she closes the space between them, glaring. "C'mon, Will. Prove me wrong, _hit me_." 

They stare at each other. Frozen. 

In the next second his lips meet hers in a brutal, bruising kiss.

Will grabs her waist and pivots them, reversing their positions so Alana's the one with her back against the wall. He immediately removes his hands, not allowing himself to touch her, instead flattening his palms against the wall on either side of her, caging Alana in as they kiss.

It's rough and hard and almost violent, a clash of teeth and tongues and needy, devouring lips. Alana's got one hand gripping the nape of his neck, the other on his waist, but he still isn't touching her. He _won't_.

After awhile of this, her lips soften against his, and Will gentles the kiss out of pure instinct. For a moment, it's sweet oblivion, but then he remembers himself and very deliberately catches her bottom lip sharply between his teeth, tugging slightly before crushing his lips against hers again. He's hard already, and he presses his full length against her, pinning her more firmly against the wall. 

They strain toward each other, driven by some need to be even closer, for there to be nothing - not clothing, not atmosphere, not instability and nightmares and stitches - separating them. Alana lets out a low, growling sound from the back of her throat; Will feels it vibrate against his tongue and it nearly undoes him right then and there. She has her hands on his back, underneath his shirt, and as he presses against her, her nails dig into his back. Will wants to tell her to keep going, to scratch him deeper, harder, to leave her own scar on his skin.

It's Alana who eventually grabs his hand off the wall and places it on her hip, keeping her own hand on top lest he move away. Will freezes, and Alana weaves their fingers together, her touch insistent, and slides his hand lower, ducking beneath the hem her dress. 

She can't pull away, there's nowhere for her to go, but Alana tilts her head to the side, sliding her lips off of his, and whispers breathlessly. "Will. Look at me. Please."

Slowly, painstakingly, he does so. Her eyes are hazy, but so gentle and earnest, and Will's heart catches as he realizes they are at cross purposes, each trying to prove opposing points: Will, that he is a monster; Alana, that he isn't.

For a second his chest aches, and he thinks, _Not now. Not like this._ But then his eyes fall on the cut on her cheek, and he remembers that this is the only way it can be, that all other options were rendered impossible the second he threw her off his hospital bed. Maybe even before that. Maybe she was never something he could have.

He removes his remaining hand from the wall and, though it twists his stomach to do so, rests it against her cheek, the touch feather light. He's trembling, and he lifts his thumb slightly, skimming the length of the stitches, feeling the strange, prickly edges.

Will's eyes darken, going slightly unfocused as he leaves his thumb there. With his other hand, he hooks his fingers around the waistband of her underwear, tugging it down tentatively, a question. "You want to know what I am?" he whispers, a low, throaty rasp. "I'll prove it."

Alana nods, whether in response to his words or the tentative action of his fingers or both Will doesn't know. She drops her hands and with quick, urgent purpose unhooks his belt and tugs on his jeans. But then his fingers snake between her legs, spreading her, and Alana freezes, reeling back against the wall as his fingers begin to stroke, languid and teasing. 

She arches into his hand, and Will kisses her again with rough urgency, as though reminding her that this is war, a fight between them to prove whether or not he's human. He is an unstoppable force colliding with her immoveable object. 

Alana starts making short, whimpery noises against his mouth, and he only kisses harder, deeper, like he can swallow them whole. 

Abruptly, Will withdraws his hand, and a cry of protest slips out before Alana can stop herself. Will reaches down and finishes the task she started, dropping his pants to the ground, fully exposing himself before bracing his hands on her hips, lifting the skirt of her dress. He leans into her again, hard and hot against her leg, and gives her another searing kiss.

He lifts his mouth off of hers, staying close enough that he can't properly look at her, his words falling against her lips as he asks, "You sure?"

"Yes." The answer is immediate, eager, desperate. 

Without waiting another moment, he reaches for the back of her thighs and lifts her ever so slightly, her back sliding up the wall, and with a quick, ruthless push, Will shoves himself inside her.

He doesn't give her time to get used to the intrusion, immediately beginning to thrust, fast. Pinned against the wall, Alana has little control; she has no choice but to let him set the pace, and it's frantic, something almost vicious about his movements. She tangles one hand in his hair, grabbing hold of the soft, brown curls, while her other hand clutches his back for dear life, nails digging into his skin.

"Will-" she gasps out after awhile, voice cracking. He isn't looking at her. She wants him to. 

There's a low pressure pooling inside her, tugging at her gut, and if he goes any faster she'll fly apart. WIth the limited motion she has, Alana spurs him on, rolling her hips to quicken his already fervent pace. 

"Oh, God, _Will_..."

The pressure builds, everything turning hazy, and then Alana shatters, lips parting in a silent scream as she comes apart in a burst of heat and white light. Will's grip on her legs tightens almost forcefully as she rides it out, like a widening riptide.

Her orgasm pushes Will toward the edge, a thick moan lifting from his throat, and he's so close when suddenly he freezes, halting his movements. For the first time since they started, he lifts his eyes to meet hers, still dazed and unfocused. Something in his face falls open, and Alana's throat narrows at the raw neediness there. His eyes are wide and wet, and when he speaks, his voice is shaking and barely audible, "Alana..." It is so close to being over. _They_ are so close to being over.

Her eyes fill up, and she lifts the hand not woven into his curls to cup his cheek. She kisses him, tender and soft, and he lets her but doesn't kiss back. After a moment, he turns his face away, murmuring a tiny, heartbroken, "Sorry..." before pushing against her once again, so hard she slams into the wall.

It only takes a few more thrusts, brutal and punishing, before Will lets go, and she wraps her arms around his back, dropping her forehead against his shoulder as he convulses.

When it's over, Will's muscles go limp, and he sags against Alana, drained. Their harsh, shallow breathing sounds perversely loud in the quiet of the house. For a long moment they stay like that, unwilling and unable to sacrifice the closeness, but eventually Will comes back into himself, and he straightens up, pulling out, the movement sending an errant shock shooting up Alana's spine, but it's empty pleasure now. Immediately, viscerally, they feel the cold of the other's absence. 

Will feels sick. He just fucked Alana Bloom, hard and fast, against the wall of his living room. She kept her dress on. His pants remained around his ankles, his shirt never came off. It was never supposed to be like that, not with her, not in the countless times he imagined it. They both started out trying to prove something, and he has no idea who won.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out suddenly in a desperate, trembling voice. "I'm so sorry." His eyes are on her cheekbone, once again, but he has no idea which offense he's apologizing for. He blinks out some tears, and Alana immediately reaches for him, as he continues to mumble thickly, "Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry..."

Alana wraps her arms around him, and they sink awkwardly to the floor together. Will ends up with his face against her collarbone, tears dripping onto her skin as he trembles silently. She strokes his hair with infinite tenderness, occasionally pressing her lips against the crown of his head, but her throat's too tight to speak even if she knew what to say.

They stay like that for a long time. With no warning, however, Will eventually pulls away and stands up. Wordlessly, he offers Alana his hand and pulls her to her feet, but he lets go the second she's standing.

He turns his back to her, fumbling with the fly of his jeans and shuffling away. "Uh...you should...probably go." Each word is heavy with weary apology, and this time Alana doesn't protest.

"Right."

They glance at each other, then immediately look away, the air thick with some intangible sense of loss. It feels inexplicably like something has ended, though they never really got started. 

Finally, accepting that there's nothing left to say, Alana turns and goes. Will supposes that means he won, that he got what he wanted in the most twisted, sickening way possible. 

 

*

 

Back at her house, Alana leans close to the bathroom mirror, maneuvering a pair of scissors to snip the thread of her stitches. But her fingers are trembling and clammy, and her grip slips slightly, the blade of the scissors nicking her skin, just above the existing gash.

"God _damn_ it." She reels back, the scissors clattering to the floor, a thin trail of blood rolling over black thread.

Alana braces her hands against the sink, exhausted. And she finally begins to cry, the tears trailing salt into both an open and closed wound.


End file.
